Six.
There was no cheery outburst of hello that echoed in the warmth of the common room, not even the sound of concentrated scribbling on reams of parchment, or the frantic prose of:
'God I think I utterly decimated my chances on this test!…The mixture wasn't at the right consistency!…Oh…I did? I REALLY did! I PASSED Ginny, look!'
She russet haired witch peeled her head from off the top of a cherry wood desk she had situated herself at. Ginny looked around helplessly, expectantly. Only to find the curious gaze of first and second years peering intermittently at her – the upperclassmen were too busy exchanging conspiracy theories regarding the absentees, Lavender Brown and Professor McGonagall.
That daydream felt too real. She thought she had heard her, her opposite and her best friend. Then in little more than a blink of an eye, something in her stirred from those repetitious thoughts.
Ginny shook her head suddenly guilty of herself and more so of how her body reacted. "You will not acknowledge that."
As if it were hot on the tails of that memory that familiar timbre sounded – but it was hurried, putting a stop to those who took to the harsh sss'ing of gossip whisperers. Hermione appeared from the east wing of the room, the one that led straight to the lonely tower occupied by the former Head Boys and Girls of Gryffindor.
'Excuse me, please…out of the way.'
Her gaze easily found the Head Girl who breezed through the room, sparing no look towards Ginny – or if there was, Hermione made sure not to allude to the fact she knew the red-head was there. In her hurried wake, the rumormongering reached fever pitched velocities. And all beginning to pool around the Gryffindor girl that just left.
A deep crinkle of her normally carefree features formed between her sculpted brows. It was said that Ginny Weasley could very well be the next prefect-Head-Girl for Gryffindor. Witty, likeable, and insanely attractive. There were times she used those particular attributes to her advantage to get what she needed or wanted. Why not? 'If you've got it, flaunt it.' No shame in that. But above all that materialistic whoring she did, one honorable thing remained in tact. The need to defend Hermione and it came out naturally.
"Will you all just bloody nail your flaps together! Like that were the only troubles in your piss poor lives…"
The lull was predictable – at least for a moment.
"You don't have any authority here, Weasley. We will talk about whomsoever we please, including your former friend." There was a pause above the still-quiet, "Who I hear…has taken quite the, ah, special interest in our new headmistress"
The younger crowd exchange unsure and puzzled glances. The upper tiers murmured knowingly. Everyone had seen the initial meeting between the pair in their house. Outside it became a fascinating spectacle for the whole school…Hermione and Fleur was a phrase that was becoming a gradual link, even above the sudden metamorphosis of the Bookish Girl Wonder.
Ginny rose from her seat, raking her fingers through her hair in aggravation; she had not bothered to hide the red rim that dressed her eyes. She speared her eyes dead on to the source – Parvati stood in the center of the room, lit by the flames that licked her face. She probably had just returned from the medical wing. For Parvati hardly looked the part of seductress, instead seemed more banshee-like; wiry-framed and bug-eyed, reasoned Ginny. The tall Quidditch chaser stalked towards her prey and burrowed her gaze evenly on Parvati.
"I have more authority than some home grown sluts that tromp around hoping to earn favors with their worn snatches." Her eyes flicked dangerously, "As far as I hear, Parvie…that is all you're good for innit?" Ginny lowered her voice, "I warn you now…you had best hold your tongue about her." She hated Parvati Patil, hated her to no end. This was the girl that twisted Ginny's world.
Parvati leaned forth and hissed, "Oh please…I think you about shot to the top of that Bookworm's list of most vile and wicked…", the reply was smug, and held truth. The Indian witch continued, "And you shouldn't look too far, Ginny." She lowered her eyes towards the russet haired girl's nether region, "As much as the thought of carrying Ronnie's baby gives me warm fuzzies…At least I used protection with my man, mum." Ginny's face faulted and Parvati clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, "We're one and the same you and I – But I wasn't stupid enough to get myself knocked u--"
"Might I sugges' tha' you not finish tha' statement, there Parvati – I 'ave mind enough te knock your teeth out if y'do."
Both girls broke the tethered look they shared on one another. Looking past Parvati's shoulder, Ginny was surprised to see Neville – his face was slowly edging away from those baby-fat years; he smiled pleasantly, but the most surprising feature were his eyes. They were pinioned on Parvati's form. His gaze was hard and intolerant though his voice was wrought with a sort of light jocularity.
Ginny heard Parvati scoff, "Growing a little backbone Neville?… The way your gran-mum raised you, I can't imagine you being able to bring yourself to shit on an ant. Don't even consider hurting a lady…"
He had a package clutched in his right hand and preceded to tuck the brown-bag under his arm, before guiding his hands into the depths of his slack pockets. Conspiratorially, Neville leaned forward. With a smile on his face he replied:
"No…no you're right, I wouldna do tha' to a lady. So what does 'at make you?"
As if she were saved the embarrassment of the situation, the door to the common room swung open pulling the attention from the three and towards the door. It heralded Ron's arrival. Parvati immediately spirited her way towards him. The Weasley siblings cared very little in acknowledging the other's presence. Ginny was glad that Neville had ran interference, he then lead her away and towards a tucked nook of the room.
"You alright then?" Neville questioned quietly, offering her a seat.
Ginny's lips quirked while she looked at her fellow Gryffindor. He stared dumbly back at her. But before she could comment, the high-pitched whinny of Parvati erupted. She glanced backward and found her brother throwing his hands up in the air and the git-of-a-witch bounding out of the room.
"Reckon it's true. 'bout Ron and 'Mione," Neville's comment was more of an absent after-thought than a question.
Ginny dared not look at Neville. Instead her eyes drifted towards the package that was still nestled under his arm. He must have felt her eyes on him, because the wizard stated in proud fashion, "…it's a lil project I been workin' on."
"Oh? Give it here..."
"You'll think I'm'a twit." He chuckled and added quickly, "Don't bother t'shake your 'ead, Gin – I know what category I'm lumped in. Th' geeks an' freeks."
She brought her form to rest at the edge of her seat, and reached out for his hands, but paused in reflection. The teen couldn't very well say, trust me, I wouldn't do that to a friend. She voided that right the moment she decided to turn a blind eye to her brother's activities.
Blood is thicker than water. That was force-fed crap.
"Do you really think I'd do that," answered Ginny. That's right, pass the buck, have others judge you.
Neville squeezed her hands, "No. Not you. You've been nothing but tried and true."
She gave a fragile smile. That was even worse – people believing in you when you know otherwise. Ginny's stomach lurched. She could taste the bile rising from of her stomach. But she didn't move – her body felt too heavy. Not that Neville noticed. He had dug out the contents of the brown paper bag and gave a grunt.
She looked at him questioningly.
What spilled from the bag, at least from what Ginny could discern were terracotta colored pieces. Some were bigger, while others were shattered beyond recognition. She furrowed her brows, "pieces, Neville…Broken pieces?"
He chuckled and gave a shallow nod, "Summat. Broken clay pieces." Neville eased out the main body, and Ginny then realized it was part of a larger sculpture that looked beyond repair. But what she could grasp was basically a creation of extreme talent and beauty. It was a Babylonian styled bust. Medium sized; it was crafted with careful hands.
"It…it's looking a tad rough…Do you think you can fix it?"
"I ought to think I can, yeah. After all…I made the blasted thing."
"You…you what?" She sat there astounded.
His neck turned pink from mortification. Absently Neville began to rub the heated flesh. "Uh, yeah. Real crude an' all, I know, but it's a 'obby o'mine aside from 'Erbology. Yeah. Thought it could teach me uh, y'know…steady 'ands and more concentration. Fact, Professor McGonagall suggested I take it up 'fore she uh, well…well you know."
Ginny quietly nodded.
"This is brilliant, Nev. I mean that." The red head cradled the one large piece before eyeing the rest of the shattered parts on the table before them. "So much though…"
"Yeah, but the great thing about clay pieces," began the mop-top haired wizard, "They were born from nature and come with their own healin' factor, y'know." Neville grinned, oblivious to the confused look he garnered from Ginny and continued, unshaken.
"Mum Nature may get all flustered, tearin' things up like she does…But there isn't a force strong enough that'd destroy what She made, y'know – not even 'erself. Always a reason for 'er tirade, most o'the times, it means She aims t'change things up a lil."
"Bloody 'ell - Lotta times, the change is for the best. Makes a thing stronger. The strongest there is, I think, are these here clay pieces; I mean…y'get t'thinking they may be the most fragile things in th'world, yeah?"
"But deep in'em they're the same as they always been…Been reliable throughout 'istory. Nothin' but a lil care is all tha's needed t'fix these puppies up. Watch."
Transfixed, the witch witnessed Neville pull out his wand and said the incantation for summoning water in a container. Pleased that the spellcasting worked the first time, he dipped a few fingers into the container, wetting the pads of his digits liberally. He coddled the largest piece in one hand, and then with his coated fingers, he gently mended cracks on the Clay Piece's once tranquil surface.
As he handed her the piece, Ginny found herself quiet – struck dumbfounded at the gravity of what was occurring at this moment. She studied Neville's face and let loose a soft laugh as she was met with his concerned glance. This had been the oddest, but most effective form of consolation she'd ever gotten.
"I'm okay, Nev. I promise."
He nodded slightly. She reached for the container, trailing her wet fingers over the cracked clay, mending them as best she could. Noticing how hard her fingers needed to work to fix the gaping wounds, she frowned. But time and a little elbow grease had eventually smoothed out the hurt piece. Ginny didn't know how long the silence stretched, but she somehow knew that Neville didn't mind. She lifted the piece, brandishing it to the quiet wizard. He smiled in approval.
She replied after a time, "First, you bit off Parvati's balls…then you get philosophical. What have you been taking? And…more importantly, can you spare some for me."
He didn't understand it either. Neville was overcome with emotions that he didn't quite know how to handle. It had been happening a lot to him lately…he went from one extreme to the next, classic bi-polar syndromes. He had heard that boys were late bloomers and decided to chalk that up to adolescence. With a genial shrug and earnest naivety he offered:
"Reckon it's gotta be hormones."
- - -
It was a sound of sharp inhalation, one that force fed air into her body. Lavender's lips peeled apart as her eyes sharked about the dim comforts of the medical wing. Her hands though lethargic, groped at her sheets desperately. She realized that she wasn't alone; that instilled such a terrifying stab in her that her still fragile body jolted upright. Her bed shook violently from her movements.
The springs in the mattress creaked maliciously summoning the nurse to her. Lavender realized the presence she was afraid of was just the nurse – nothing to be daunted by. Except, she didn't recognize it to be Madame Pomfrey. Lavender was tired and dehydrated though, so her lack of recognition would have to be forgiven. With a raspy voice, she heard herself beg for drink. The attendant complied by filling a glass with simple water and handing it over.
As if she had been deliberately being starved, the teenager gulped the water in massive mouthfuls down her parched throat. Water spilled from the sides of her lips before she shoved the glass back to the attendant. More, she had begged again. Her vision was blurred thanks to the over-abundance of sleep that her body began to crave, but it also didn't help that only moonlight was the only source that bathed the ward – even then, it wasn't enough; so when she began to look upon her caregiver all she could make out was a detached look upon a nondescript countenance.
Lavender offered a weak apology. The attendant didn't reply. But only kept staring.
Unease settled into the Gryffindor girl's body, she sensed she was trapped. Immediately that feeling went away as the burn of anger that had erupted in her replaced it. She found her fingers rubbing at her eyes. They remained blurred. This wasn't happenstance – a spell had been cast on her an ingenious one that affected her vision.
"You promised things would be fixed…I did as you bloody asked me to! It took time to tear them apart, but I did! I sacrificed for you…I…I gave you what you all wanted, haven't I? Their friendship's…rendered…"
She found her sobs were soundless while her body shook insolently, Lavender's babble continued despite herself.
"You promised the whole school wouldn't know what I was…. that she would be mine. You promised…but you gave her to that rat bastard Weasley! She was supposed to be…"
A clammy hand rested upon her still-sheet-covered knee. Even through the haze of her gaze Lavender saw the white of its teeth. The attendant had the gall to smile. After all she had done, it smiled. It wasn't reassuring, nor was it one of gratitude. It just existed.
Unexpectedly…
Her body slumped forward and her lips parted expelling her breath. One by one, the various objects of the room began to disappear from her view – her eyes were closing. Cold hands pressed against Lavender's shoulders, in effect forcing her back to the beddings. She hadn't been too far-gone to grasp that the following flow of words fell from the attendant's non-corporeal lips. It was a voice mixed with Americana crisp and English highbrow...yet familiar.
"You're replaced and no longer needed," the quasi-European murmured in addition – and very ominously said, "Sleep well, Miss Brown..."
Though her body no longer responded to her will, a smile would have formed over her lips.
Lavender Brown had been freed.
- - -
When Dumbledore had taken the mantle of Headmaster for Hogwarts, he had a hand with the inception of his core staff. Deliberately choosing Wizards and Witches with skills honed in specific areas. With a knack for healing, Madam Poppy Pomfrey was such a woman who quickly became the heart and soul of the Medical Ward for the school. But lately the question of her abilities had arisen.
She glanced at her hands and noted their aged refinement. Madame Pomfrey shook her head in dismay witnessing a sudden, yet slight tremor arrest them. The nurse quietly married her hands together, rubbing them over the other to generate some heat and to harbor a flicker of hope that that motion would cease their shaking. When that failed, she pulled the shawl about her shoulders tighter before rising to her feet.
At that very moment the clock-tower's bell system tolled. Deep and somber, the sound alerted Madame Pomfrey to her current duty. She moved through her office door which lay just adjacent from the main ward and caught a glimpse of a lantern lit within.
'Ah, that's right Poppy – you've taken on Volunteers…'
So reminded her mind. It was the right decision. The nurse had much too much to deal with without having to add on ill besotted teenagers (heartbroken or otherwise). Madame Pomfrey lobbed her gaze towards the private room that held another patient. Day in and out, she tended to that one patient. Day in and out, she was dealt with failures. That magic was beyond her capabilities. Her hope diminished of ever healing her long-time friend with every onward movement of time. But Minerva McGonagall had withstood far worse.
Weary from the gravity of her situation, Madame Pomfrey shuttled her way to the main ward, she needed to work in solitude with no interference.
With a curt knock laid upon the ward's main entryway, she pushed her way in. There, she stalked in with her head held aloft, brandishing the worn lines of her matronly features; There would be no way a woman as stalwart as Poppy Pomfrey would betray any weaknesses. It just wasn't in her. The woman's eyes swept the length of the room and spotted the student volunteer standing aside Lavender Brown's cot.
Prim and proper as she was known for, Madame Pomfrey addressed the attendant, "It is getting on in the evening, child. You should be off for your House."
"Of course Madame Pomfrey."
She stood at the foot of the bed as the student rounded it. The nursemaid looked upon Lavender surprised at the serenity of her countenance. She had come into the ward draped in a fit of hysteria, with incoherency spewing from her lips with bouts of woebegone confessions of unrequited love. Teenagers.
"Has she been asleep long?"
The attendant paused and spirited about to reply. "No," a breath was given in thought, "She had finally succumbed a little while before you entered, Madame."
"Blessed be." Madame Pomfrey glanced over her shawl-covered shoulder, "You've been a God-send."
Gabrielle smiled and toyed with the sound of that compliment. "I know."
- - -
The needle scratched at the surface of the record, bringing forth nothing but white noise. Fleur remained stationary for just a minute, half hidden by the shadows of the room. Realizing that the song had ended, she moved from the grasp of the blanket of shadows and silenced the scratching irritation of the phonograph. Her eyes drifted towards her companion.
Hermione could barely down the contents of her chalice after the toast was made. In spite the good natured inflection and sincere words Fleur offered, the younger female felt the conversation took a turn into unsteady territory; she didn't know just where that territory lead, but Hermione knew she had been the one that brought them to that unnamed point.
The Muggle needed to dig out of the impending gravesite.
"She doesn't approve of me, does she?"
Not that that subject is any better, 'Mione m'girl – God you are the epitome of brilliance in her shadow aren't you?
But, there was a faint change in the silver colored depths of Fleur's eyes; Hermione tilted her head and continued – at least there was a semblance of something other than that cool stare and the quiet that replaced their earlier banter. It was hilarious really. There was a time that she would have given anything to have the Veela shut her maw. This evening…this moment – though she didn't acknowledge its presence in her mind, she was aching. She needed Fleur to feed her with more than that aloof gaze.
She needed to hear that contralto purr.
Hermione fed her lungs with a deep gulp of air. Her nerves were continually being shot with foreign emotions, physical wants – all she logically fought valiantly against.
Each day, she felt she was losing. It frightened her.
"Your sister," managed the teen.
"Ah…," the Veela's lips feinted a smirk, "that is Gabrielle for you," remarked Fleur quietly, as if it answered everything. But she caught Hermione's questioning look. She smiled consolatory. The platinum haired woman tucked a stray lock of her mane behind her ear and absently added, "She 'as always been fond of 'er possessions."
The Muggle furrowed her brows. It was an odd thing to hear flowing from the lips of the Veela. A very proud Veela. Possessions? Is that what Fleur thought of herself? The Veela hadn't realized exactly what she just pronounced. So when Hermione heard no other explanations offered, she carefully needled Fleur.
"I don't think I understand."
"She iz a DeLacour. A true…brat."
Hermione was taken aback by the matter-of-fact announcement. Fleur chuckled. "It is a DeLacour trait – we demand, we get. For 'er, if you possess what she wants, she will most certainly 'ate you." Confused by the latter statement, the teenager tucked that bit of information into the deep recesses of her mind. Have what she wants?
Fleur continued, "Az you recall," the Veela gave a downward turn of her head, in effect motioning to herself, "I waz a little…"
"Whiny?"
"I would 'ave preffered – catty."
Hermione chuckled and wrinkled her nose, "Not when you started off with that-", she began to pantomime - fluttering her eyelids, and then coupled that with a toss of her partially bushy mane. Encouraged by Fleur's arched brow, Hermione finished with a flippant, "I em prettier zan all off 'oo combined! – Cawing. I mean..really, did we need to be reminded every hour on the hour? We all knew you were…" then quietly confessed, "Not that you aren't now…"
Hermione grinned unsure if her whispered prose was carried towards the elder woman. Or even if she was offended by it. Fleur had laughed softly. "What better way than that to make an impression no? After all," she regarded the girl, "You and Ginny, despised me."
"Yes, well…That…that was before."
"And now…?"
Hermione pondered and mused out, "Tolerate is a word in your vocabulary, isn't it?"
She smiled.
"As for Ginny," the Muggle turned about abruptly as failed to hide her scoff. "She's come into her own though, hasn't she…Ever popular, ever lovely…surprisingly backstabbing…" Hermione rubbed her forearm, "Can we skip that particular topic?"
"Az you wish."
The teenager looked over her shoulder to Fleur, "Seriously – you're not going to push the subject?"
Fleur shrugged amicably, "Why? I think I fascinate you enough that you can't resist telling me everything in due time. Just as you could not resist befriending me." She suppressed a smirk at the sight of Hermione's look of incredulity to her egotistical remark.
"Scratch that…You're so bullocking full of yourself."
"And you're still British – I think it is the same…maybe worse?"
Hermione gawked before tossing a small throw pillow from a luxurious ecru divan she just reached, towards Fleur – who plucked it from the air with ease.
She shook her head, laughing quietly. It was unorthodox how the woman could relatively erase her damper mood. In unceremonious fashion, the teen collapsed onto the seat. She eyed Fleur's shadow, which was being manipulated to dance via the firelight. Her thoughts traveled back to that want, her need to find out more about the woman in her presence – It was the only way to get closer…
Fleur was right…you couldn't resist. Damn her. But damn me more…
"Your English has improved, I haven't told you that, have I?" She tried another path.
"You just did. Merci for the compliment."
"…BUT, it's not as impeccable as Gabrielle's," haughtily intoned Hermione before she gave the Veela more airs than needed. She casually allowed her head to lean against her propped arm, "In fact, she doesn't even have an accent. Why is that?"
Fleur toyed with the tasseled edges of the pillow that she caught, "After the death of my grandmother – my parents divorced. Papá…," her voice softened, "Papá 'ad custody of Gabrielle and left for the United States."
The French woman's voice trailed, somewhere a memory was being brought forth. As if Hermione had read her mind, Fleur received a consolatory quiet. She had been grateful the younger woman withheld a comment. Even one as simple as an 'I'm sorry', would have driven her ballistic.
"You don't sound so enthused about that," she stated instead. Hermione wasn't one to drop a subject if it garnered her interest.
Fleur found her fingers manipulating the tassels, dividing a few into three pairs – she was amused at Hermione's curiosity of her life, but wasn't ready to divulge. Deftly her digits began to weave each into a small braid. Her mind recalled images of her one time loving parents flying accusations into the other's face. One night, it had been particularly horrific. Their shouting roused her from bed and Gabrielle's small frame had been huddled at her side seeking her older sister's protection. The child refused to leave Fleur.
Their room's door had been ajar as it always was every night for the benefit of their mother who paid them consistent visits. The words cut the stillness of the night; words that were riddled with insipid retort from drunken lips – as abruptly as it started, it was stopped by her father's pronouncement and her mother's bruised cheek:
"-My- daughter will not be a reflection of you and that prostitute of a girl that you call your child."
Fleur was sixteen. It was a hell of a way to find out that not only were you a bastard child, but that you were reviled by the only father you ever knew. Drawing her eyes back to meet Hermione's studying gaze, she answered, hoping that her tone impressed a degree of humor.
"She 'ad been Americanized. Would you be 'appy?" The Veela stretched her arms over her head and gave a lazy drawl then dropped them, finishing with a genial shrug, "Republican this, Desperate 'Ousewives that…"
The younger female knew she happened on a delicate subject and quietly decided to retreat – for now. Hermione gave a soft, respecting chuckle for the apparent joke made.
"Though, I think you did not come 'ere to chat about the niceties of my life."
There it was, the subtle hint of insinuation that clung with ease to Fleur's delivery. The muggle should have known better by now not to push. She had been towing the line ever since she began to visit the enigmatic woman. Lowering her head onto the arm rest of Fleur's sofa, Hermione quietly confessed, "Is it so terrible to want to be this close…to know you better…"
But the platinum haired beauty hadn't heard her and continued oblivious to the youth's yearning gaze. She lopped the pillow aside, "Well?"
She remained seated as the elder woman took command of the room. The French Witch had become the centrifugal point of the area, and not once did Fleur look at her. Unbidden and out of nowhere, she felt a spike of anger at the Veela's cool detachment.
Goddamn you, don't you pull from me now.
No longer able to tame the frustration level her emotions and what her body was going through, the teen stood from the divan abruptly. Still holding her glass flute, Hermione felt her fingers tensed about the rim, any more pressure and perhaps the glass would have broken.
"I assume we 'ave come to the point of tonight's visit," edged the Frenchwoman in mild annoyance.
"Your etiquette is impeccable…but your social manner is in dire need of work," snapped Hermione. "It's not a wonder you haven't friends."
Fleur kept her silent vigil – Because it was true, yet coming from Hermione's lips, the comment bruised her. Friendship was a difficult ship for the Veela to steer. She learned that people, no matter the race, always leech from you. And with all these visits from Hermione - it always began with playful jests, easing to small talks, a dig into her life and ended with the younger woman asking for help in the art of seducing the imbecilic red haired boy back to her young arms – How could she not feel…used?
Fleur was whore in the purest form. To be pillaged for the best parts.
But…
Combating the tempest in her and the dull gutting sensation at the base of her neck, the Veela let out a slow breath accompanied with a quiet prose, "It 'as been a long day...for the both of us. Perhaps", Fleur hesitated "...you should leave."
Stunned. There was regret for her snipe. She had no right to. To have accused Fleur. Then hearing the request to leave – Hermione's anxiety rose… She had been the only person that had reached out and steadied the teenager. Hermione needed to say sorry, it should have been uncomplicated. After all…
Be truthful 'Mione…
…She intruded on Fleur's life. It was an obsessive compulsion that couldn't be stopped.
Be truthful 'Mione…
…And she didn't care. Had she gone insane?
Lowering her head because of guilt Hermione's mind reeled in confused whirlwind, the teenager murmured repetitively peppered with unsure pause, "It's late and...and you're right, I should get back…I should head back…" When what felt like an eternity passed and she had not gotten an answer, Hermione lifted her gaze.
Fleur was only a few feet from her. The moonlight had framed the woman in a sort of ethereal radiance, making her eyes all the more evocative. Slowly, Fleur pressed the small of her back to the lip of the window's ledge, her hands coasted to her sides and her ankles crossed. One needn't be a mind-reader to see that the youth had something more to say, something behind the hooded cocoa gaze screamed, yet was not heard. Patiently, Fleur waited.
Be truthful 'Mione…
"But", it was a breathless pronouncement even as her feet carried her closer towards the still stationary, still silent enchantress. Hermione's fingers trawled and unconsciously dabbled at her house tie, while her other hand busied with the glass' rim.
"…I don't want to." The muggle's heart rate doubled in its intensity, causing a deafening throb in her ears. She swore her words shook with each vowel that sputtered from her lips. Hermione's body began winning the unnamed war with her logic – the latter cave in…Her need to define the unknown rushed into her mercilessly. Desperately she groped for words, "Please…I just need…" She searched her mind rapidly for any excuse to offer.
Any excuse for her to stay.
It was faint but Fleur heard it and read it in the youth's eyes. The underlying words that were just a breath beneath the words Hermione just spoke; it came down to the intermittent looks she received with every visit, every timid smile and hesitation. The Veela wouldn't be a Veela if she hadn't pinioned the signs.
Hermione was curious, confused and above all afraid…afraid of what was happening to her Her inner mind had long been silenced from its cries of Ron's name; the one she loved and the one she so desperately wanted back...she was supposed to be with him. From this point on, something more poignant needed to be answered.
What did you do to me?
"Why do you think Jazz music appeals to me?"
The Muggle was obviously taken aback by the off topic muse. Fleur continued nonplussed, turning her gaze out into the never-ending night. Her voice was haunting, as if it were pulled from a dream so much so, Hermione had to inch closer just to hear. She had become rapt.
"Jazz speaks truth, Jazz makes you feel, Jazz makes you forget..." A drawn pause settled. Then quietly, Fleur reminded her, "It iz late 'Ermione."
She was handed the ball. A ball, which continued to bounce with no direction until, Hermione gave a quiet laugh of understanding. She swallowed nervously to wet her now-parched throat. "Yes…it is. We know this." Fleur's attention was drawn back to her. Instinctively, the Muggle gave a nod of her head and deeply inhaled.
"Tell me more." Hermione had committed – there was no other way than forward, to go.
They stood before one another both knowing there was no way to fight the merging of Crystalline Blue and Hazelnut. Fleur lifted the glass from Hermione's hand and offered a faint smile. Her lips parted taking in the remainder of the Muggle's unfinished drink. Hermione's gaze lowered and was transfixed with the gentle rise and fall of Fleur's chest.
Setting aside the empty glass, Fleur murmured, "Turn."
Hermione looked to her questioningly.
In swift motion, Fleur had invaded the muggle's personal space, a hand was placed upon the younger woman's hip, and the other lifted the girl's curtain of hair, irresistibly, the teen was drawn into the elder woman's arms. Fleur lowered her head allowing her lips the privilege of almost tasting Hermione's supple flesh – a sinful torment - and slowly eased the teen about.
"Turn," came another…softer command from Fleur. The muggle complied.
Hermione's back was gently pressed against Fleur's body; the muggle fought to quiet a moan that ached to be ripped from her throat. She felt Fleur's heart beat joining with her own erratic one – it tamed it; she felt the Veela's breasts push against her back before the pressure of the woman's firm leg slipped between her own. But nothing…nothing was more intoxicating was when she felt the heat between her thighs erupt in a moist assault, all at the breathless utterance of Fleur's following words, flowing over the nape of her neck:
"…Melt into me."
Other words tumbled from the Veela's lips; it was an indiscernible prose smoldering with her French lilt. This was a combination that made Hermione quake, milking her lust. Suddenly, the gentle swaying bridge of a song was brought to life and began to dress the interior of the room. Fleur soothingly pressed her forehead against her companion's temple as her hands freely wandered the canvass of Hermione's sides. Accidental or on purpose, the younger woman could not determine, but what she felt was the feather-like caress of the elder woman's finger tips hooking beneath the edge of her untucked blouse; they grazed against her hidden flesh which finally coaxed a cry from the Muggle's already parted lips. Thankfully the music swallowed the sound.
The Veela within Fleur freely took the reigns; seduction was a game and a forte for her kind that no one human could fend off. And she knew, by the way that Hermione's abdomen quivered, the girl's body was all but hers to command. Slowly, she led the youth into motion, dipping her hip and wedging her thigh further between Hermione's legs, parting them more. There, minute as it was, the Muggle-born's body arrested. Immediately Fleur duskily murmured:
"…I 'ave you."
In more ways than one...
In answer, Hermione nodded letting her head be supported by the nook of Fleur's shoulder... The friction imparted upon her lower region was too much to bear but she was unwilling to stop this dance. Easily...absently, her hips rocked slowly over the muscle nestled between her thighs sending closer to the edge of what kept her sane. Hermione's hands found themselves grasping in silent plea over Fleur's own before her fingers timidly laced between the elder woman's. A light sheen of sweat began to form on her forehead as her young body visited sensations that she never knew existed, all brought on with a woman's touch.
As she dipped and rolled her hips, the younger woman's body melded with her own, as she swayed Hermione's body quivered. At this point Fleur knew she owned her companion physically. It hadn't helped that she was also on the fringe of her arousal. Hermione didn't realize how seductive she could be. Inhaling, the Frenchwoman was ingrained with the girl's scent, the tenderness of her flesh, down to the innocent way she tried to stymie her body's wanton reactions.
"Jazz seduces you…without you realizing."
Hermione's back arched – Fleur's hand furthered down the teen's thigh, teasing the sensitized flesh as her fingers lifted the edge of her skirt, to only stop mid-way in its excursion. The Veela had to tame herself…this wasn't for her. She wasn't for her. Still, the jealousy that's inherant of her Veela side, reared its venom.
"You want 'im, oui?" she hissed.
Hermione whimpered. Words would not forumlate. Fleur understood that as a positive reply. It was then that the Muggle felt the elder woman's lips and then her breath as she spoke, cascade along the outer rim of her ear.
"Make 'im crave you with 'ow you dance," slowly, painfully for both parties, Fleur began to under the lower buttons of Hermione's blouse,
"…You say with your body, 'ow it moves: Ron, feel me.. 'Ow I ache for you…and you alone"
The fingers that had deftly liberated Hermione's blouse, splayed over the girl's taut stomach, moving in idle patterns.
"Ron…watch me, want me, because I…", purred Fleur, giving pause before uttering her final words.
Hermione wanted Fleur to shut her mouth, she hated hearing his name come from her lips. How it rolled off her bloody French tongue, sounding as if it were merely nothing more than rubbish. How she kept saying it to reiterate a point. How that name did was not fit to be uttered from her lips…
She willed her body about with difficulty, facing the woman who assaulted every sense and sensibility she had. Hermione felt her face flushed and breathing in such close proximity was laborious at best. Her head spun, she wanted to tell Fleur that that name wasn't the one she should be saying. That…
It should be mine… MY name!
Hermione's insides clenched at the ferocity of those unsaid words. Fleur's eyes burrowed deep as she looked desperately at the Veela.
"…I…want to be the one who makes love to you."
The teenager froze. And Fleur stood there, with unreadable features, save for her slightly parted lips, and what Hermione swore was a gentle trace of color crawling over the woman's cheeks.
But the phonograph skidded to a halt, making the music stop abruptly amidst the sudden flare of lights exploding from each candleabra that graced the room. The teeanger scanned the room in surprise. And as the cool of the night air coursed about her body, Hermione realized that Fleur had left her side. Quickly even as her body…her senses were under the lust-haze, her eyes sought the enchantress out, she now stood just off to her left; her demeanor had shifted. Fleur's profile was as breathtaking as ever, but peppered with disdain. Her cerulean eyes affixed towards the shadowed lair of the foyer…
From its pit, a shock of red hair was first brandished, wild and untamed. Hermione nearly collapsed – It was Ron. His eyes were alight and clearly inebriated and brows were furrowed. An animalistic growl erupted from deep within his chest.
"I'll fuggin' kill ye."
- - -
a/n – apologies, of the sincerest form. I've just returned from another trip and finally managed to update this – it's plodding along, but I'll hurry to finish this…forgive my mistakes.